


What Would Poirot Do?

by SanSanFanFan



Series: The Great Angel Detective [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1941, After the church, Aziraphale is a terrible detective, During the Blitz, Love Is All Around, M/M, Snek Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanSanFanFan/pseuds/SanSanFanFan
Summary: July 1941. Not long after the bombing of the church Aziraphale is reading the latest Agatha Christie when he feels an unusual burst of love near him. Can he follow in the footsteps of Monsieur Poirot and discover where, or who, it's coming from?





	What Would Poirot Do?

July 1941

Some might have called it a miracle – although a minor one– that there was even a single deckchair available for the very fair-haired gentleman who had just ambled his way through the chatting and laughing crowds of sun seekers in Hyde Park. Others might have remarked on how ineptly he brought forth the pennies for its hire from somewhere in the region of the chair-boy’s left ear, but, the war aside, it was still the summer season and entertainers were all about. Including the not very good ones.

The man, apparently unbothered by the heat in his bowtie and waistcoat combination, carefully descended into the stripy blue and white canvas of his chair, smiled amicably to the sun and opened a paperback.

The title _Evil Under the Sun_ might have given the nearest members of the public pause, but only the man in the black suit who now sat in a black and white striped deckchair next to him – was that even there a moment ago? – commented on it.

“The Belgian with the moustache _again?_ ” He asked, eyebrows furrowing over his sunglasses.

“I like him. He has a certain style.” Pages were turned.

The man languidly looked his companion up and down. “Bowties. Waistcoats!” He humphed. “If you manifest a twirly oily thing on your lip, I’ll…”

“Hmmm?” Asked Aziraphale, turning another page.

“Nevermind. Thought you might want to know about the church, angel.”

The book was put down for a moment as Aziraphale thought back to that night (1). He thought fondly of how Crowley had been there for him. And for his _books!_

Something felt different since then. Something _ineffably_ different. But his jumbled feelings only came out in a slightly awkward question about Crowley’s feet.

“Ah. Yes. The Church. And your feet. How is it? How are they? Are they okay? Your feet, that is?”

Crowley’s face was impassive, his eyes hidden. “Fine. Fine. Told you, its like walking on the beach on a hot day. There’s plenty of fat-heads here who’ll be going home with worse burns on their faces by the day’s end.”

“They’re just taking the sun.” Aziraphale was glad to be talking about the weather, much safer ground. But then he frowned a little, “Is ‘taking the sun’ one of your lots’ inventions? If they’re going to burn…?”

Crowley shrugged, and it was reminiscent of the folding up of the very kind of chair he now lounged in. He looked about, serpent’s eyes behind black glass, watching the men and women. “Not that I know of, but you’re right, we do have a fondness for burning things… people. Although, here you are too, angel.”

“Ah well, for me there is something very pleasant about an afternoon in the park with a good book.” Aziraphale beamed.

Crowley narrowed his eyes and stared at the cover resting on the angel’s lap. “A murder book.”

“A _detective_ story.”

“A detective story about a _murder_. He’s not detecting _nice_ people who’ve been _nice_ to each other.”

“It’s about solving a mystery. Paying attention to clues. Finding out the truth. ”

Crowley seemed as though he was about to say something but stopped himself. He coughed and started again. Started differently, “The church. I saw them starting the works the other day. Looks like they’ve saved most of the stuff from inside. They were digging out that bird lectern thing. I thought I’d come to let you know. Because… you know, _church_.”

“Thank you, my dear. It was unfortunate what happened. If you had not been there…”

“Yeah, well. Sure.” Crowley’s voice was thick, and he coughed it away again.

“Especially since, well we hadn’t spoken in a while. A few decades. A century maybe. Since-”

“Forget about it, angel. Look, I can’t hang about, its time for me to take a powder. People to be, places to torment, you know how it is.” Crowley seemed to stumble over his words somewhat.

“Of course, but thank you again, my dear boy. For, you know… _church_.” Aziraphale gave Crowley what he hoped was one of his most appreciative smiles. The demon had even saved his books! He felt a warm glow at the memory… and then something else. Something familiar in the air about them. It wasn’t coming from a particular direction but as an angel, Aziraphale recognised the feeling at once. It was _love!_

Crowley was apparently unaffected – of course, as a demon it was not something he would be able to feel – and simply stood to take his leave, dipping his black trilby to Aziraphael in a swift goodbye.

***

The next time Aziraphale felt the same sudden burst of love nearby he was moments away from having to break up a brawl.

Deep down in the belly of London in the deepest parts of Green Park station, he was taking shelter with a few hundred other Londoners as death rained down on the streets above them. Tempers were strained in the darkness, fear was making people ratty, and all it had taken for a scuffle to break out had been a man taking up a bunk bed when a family had been about to claim it for their little ones. Aziraphale, looking spiffy in his ARP uniform (2) had just put Poirot down – the Belgian was just following a series of clues like breadcrumbs – and come over to see what all the shouting was about.

“It aint right!” Shouted the father. “E’s just one bloke and I’ve got three young’uns here who could take the bed and get some shut eye!”

“I got ‘ere first.” Growled the thuggish looking man. Aziraphale quickly reminded himself of the Kingsbury Rules for boxing, in case he needed to get rough with the oik. Of course, he preferred a more diplomatic solution-

“You there! Lay off! Or I’ll flay that tattoo of ‘mum’ you’ve got on your back right off and frame it as a gift for her.”

“Shut it, cheaters!” Growled the thug at the man in the sunglasses - cheaters – who seemed to have emerged from shadows nearby. “I’ll pound you-”

He did not get a chance to finish as Aziraphale hooked his right leg with a walking stick and he went down heavily on his backside.

“As ARP warden for this section of the station, I must give you a written warning!” Aziraphale scribbled something quickly onto a sheet on a small pad and passed it to the man, who took one look, turned green, and then scrambled to his feet to push his way past the rubbernecking Londoners.

“What did you do to the written warning, Crowley?” Asked Aziraphale with humour in his voice, as he already suspected. The two of them moved away from listening human ears.

“I just changed it to a written warning from downstairs. They’re a little more cutting than you can be. Literally.”

“I thought your threat to flay his skin from his back was pretty cutting if I might so say.”

“That? Nah, that was a sweet nothing compared to downstair’s threats. You should hear-” He stopped suddenly and looked down at the walking stick in Aziraphale’s hand. “Is that what I bloody think it is??”

The angel tried to hide it behind himself.

Crowley burst into laughter. “So, I _should_ be expecting the oily moustache next!”

“It could look elegant.”

“It could look like a dead slug.”

“A _murdered_ slug?” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, joining in the joke. And then there it was again, the warm glow of love somewhere very nearby. A very familiar feeling.

Aziraphale looked about. There were hundreds of humans down here, any one of them could have also have been near them in Hyde Park, it wasn’t that far away from this tube station. How curious! He was surrounded day in and day out by humans falling in love but there was something very special about this feeling. It made him want to find the owner… it made him want to do some detective-ing!

“No murdered slugs, I promise! But I might have some clues to follow! The games’ afoot!”

“That’s not-”

“I know, mon ami!”

“French now?” Crowley smirked.

“Both in here and in the park I felt a sudden burst of love. I need to know who it came from!”

“Wha- Why angel? It's probably just a human falling in love. That’s hardly revolutionary, no matter what they might think about it at the time.”

“No Crowley. I feel this one needs my help. I _feel_ it. Call it celestial intuition.”

“I’ll call it many things, but not _that_. I think its best to leave well alone. Yes, definitely. Just let them get on with it. They’ll never thank you for sticking your wing in you know. What if it's unrequited and you just make them feel _worse_?”

“Hmmm.” Aziraphale paused for a microsecond to give butting out some thought, before barging straight on again. “No. No, I must find them and help them!”

“And you’ll find them by…?”

Aziraphale’s triumphant face fell. Crowley sighed and rubbed his hands through his pomade-slicked hair. “Good Satan, I can’t believe I’m going to say this… what would Poirot do?”

Aziraphale beamed, “Interview the suspects.”

Crowley looked at the huddled figures in the torchlit station. Hundreds of them.

“Have fun with that, angel. I’m going back to my flat.”

“Wha-?”

“I have a delivery coming. A new piece for my flat. Otherwise, I’d totally be your Inspector Colgate.”

He disappeared into the shadows so quickly Aziraphale was forced to shout after him, “You read it?!”

He walked towards the nearest human, a young lad in his twenties.

“Excuse me,” He gently twirled the walking stick, “Are you in love?”

***

_Rosamund said softly: ‘Oh, my dear, I’ve wanted to live in the country with you all my life. Now—it’s going to come true...’_

Aziraphale sighed and then gently closed the book. He was going to write Ms Christie another letter filled with words of pure and utter adoration, that was for certain!

He was just about to reach for his blotter and his quill when his neighbour, Mr Chatterton of Chatterton’s Emporium of Quality Wines came barging in, setting off the bell and bringing in half a rainstorm with him.

“What’s all this Mr Fell? Our Edwina says you’ve been asking her inappropriate questions!”

Aziraphale got up and attempted to calm the enraged father, “I merely asked her if she was currently enjoying the amorous embraces of a young suitor? You see, I’ve noticed a feel-”

“I always thought that you were a queer one Mr Fell, and you don’t run a wine shop in Soho without getting along with all sorts. But I’ll not be standing for any kind of all-purpose pervert! Not with my Edwina!”

He stormed back out before Aziraphale could protest and slammed the door after him.

“Well!” Chuckled the angel, “That never happened to Poirot! Crowley will get such a laugh out of all this. I can’t wait to tell him-”

The love bloomed around him suddenly, making him almost dizzy. He’d gone to speak with Edwina because lately it had started happening while he was in the shop, and she might have been walking out with a beau in Hyde Park, and maybe taking shelter in Oxford Circus. The dear girl had denied it, but still… where was the feeling coming from!

Perhaps he was just not as good a detective as Monsieur Poirot. Aziraphale sighed and reached for the next book on his pile of new books to read.

“Ahhh, yes, a romance. Love and pirates. Very good. Very good indeed.” He muttered to himself as he settled in a comfy chair in a corner of the book shop. “‘When the east wind blows up Helford river the shining waters become troubled and disturbed, and the little waves beat angrily upon the sandy shores.”

Perhaps if he had been a better detective or any kind of detective at all, the angel might have noticed the small black snake on the bookshelf above him, keeping warm during the rainstorm by curling up in a discarded tweed flat cap from another of Aziraphale’s many, but brief, experimentations with headwear.

But he didn’t.

 

(1) Aziraphale would never, ever, hurt a book’s spine by leaving it bent open at his page, so he manifested a small white feather to hold his place. A lesser one his wings would not miss.

(2) ‘Air Raid Precautions’. Or as Aziraphale liked to call it, “Angel. Really Prepared.” He wasn’t particularly good at reverse engineering acronyms.


End file.
